


Crickets

by shalako



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Birthday Cake, Cuddling, Depression, Drabbles, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mismatched socks, Morning Wood, Past Abuse, Roller Coasters, Romance, Sexting, Sleepy Times, cora - Freeform, crying over disney cartoons, gold vs. technology, gold's exes, milah - Freeform, off screen abuse, random shit, showering together
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-12
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-05-01 05:23:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 10,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5193806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shalako/pseuds/shalako
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I write Golden Cricket drabbles once a day just to make sure I'm writing daily, so here they are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Clothes

There are four stages of clothes-changing that Gold goes through each day. When he gets up in the morning, he puts a sweater over his t-shirt and walks downstairs in his pajama pants to make coffee. If Archie’s there, he makes breakfast, too -- and he makes sure to run a comb through his hair before he leaves the bedroom. That sweater is Stage One. Stage Two comes somewhere around eight o’clock, after Gold rolls up his sleeves to wash the dishes, and after Archie has already kissed him goodbye and headed to work.

He goes upstairs and folds the sweater, then throws his pajamas in the hamper -- rather, he neatly folds them and places them in the hamper gently -- and changes into his business suit so he can start the day. An undershirt, and then his dress shirt, and then the waistcoat, and then the blazer. If it’s winter, he wears an overcoat, too.

At 6 o’clock, when Gold comes home (and Archie is already puttering about the kitchen), he goes to his bedroom and closes the door behind him. Gold changes quickly, into less-stuffy trousers and a sweater -- he’s always cold. There are bandages wrapped around his bad leg, not because he needs bandages, but because his throat still closes up in nervousness when he thinks of Archie seeing his scars. When they first started dating, Gold would go into the bathroom to change, locking the door behind him. Now they have at least a tentative understanding: Gold knows he doesn’t have to lock the door, and Archie knows he shouldn’t come inside while Gold is changing.

The last stage comes late at night, when Gold’s curled up at one end of the couch and Archie’s stretched out at the other, watching TV. It’ll be a cheesy horror flick or an old romance film in black-and-white, and Archie’s eyes will be tired and itchy, and Gold’s head will be nodding. He only stays up this late because Archie does, and Gold can’t stand to sleep alone; he’s too proud to say so, though.

“Gold,” Archie says, inevitably, his voice just above a whisper. He grabs Gold’s foot and shakes it gently so the other man doesn’t doze off. “You ready for bed?”

Usually, Gold doesn’t answer. He just uncurls and stands, his eyelids drooping, ready to be led away. When he does speak, it’s in a lisp that’s nonexistent in the daytime, some remnant of his childhood that Gold must not be aware of. If he was aware of it, he’d have gotten rid of it long ago.

Archie takes his hand and they walk to the bedroom together. This is where Gold manages to shake off slumber just enough to grab his pajamas and change in the bathroom. But he doesn’t _always_ remember to do this, and that’s why he wears the bandages every day. Sometimes he just has enough presence of mind to shuck off his trousers before embracing the bed, and Archie -- who knows Gold gets shivery at night, and knows Gold would be mortified if he woke up without pants on, even though they’ve had sex God-knows-how-many-times before -- tries to convince Gold to at least put on his pajama pants before succumbing to sleep.

“Goodnight,” Archie says, falling into bed next to Gold. He pulls the covers over them and turns the light off; Gold rolls over until he’s lying halfway on Archie’s chest, his head right above the other man’s heart. “Love you,” Archie says.

“Love you,” Gold says.

 

 


	2. Socks

Mismatched socks. Gold’s nose wrinkles at the sight of them, peeking out from the mouth of Archie’s shoes. It’s bad enough that a grown man buys $2 packs of “silly” socks from the general store, but do they have to be mismatched, too? It’s not like the _rest_ of Archie’s outfit is ridiculous. Ill-fitting and cheap, yes, but still respectable. He’s got waistcoats and dress shirts and passably nice trousers. Leather shoes.

And silly socks.

“You’re glaring,” Archie informs him, not looking up from the paper. Gold hastily tries to rearrange his facial features.

“I’m not trying to.”

“That’s okay. You were, though.” Archie flipped a page, scanned the articles, and then set the newspaper down. “Is it the socks again?”

Gold refuses to give an answer. He’s not a petty man. Of course he’s not glaring over someone else’s mismatched socks.

“You’re glaring again,” Archie says.

“Well, what do you want from me?” Gold huffs. “Some people would _love_ to have matching socks, you know. Some people can’t afford to go out and buy a new pair when one sock goes missing.”

“ _You_ can,” Archie says. "So I don't see what the big deal is." He pours himself some more coffee and offers the pot to Gold, who refuses and tries to busy himself in a plate of pancakes instead. Gold doesn’t like pancakes. He only made them because Archie likes them.

“ _You can_ ,” Gold repeats scathingly, unable to give voice to all the other raging thoughts circling in his head. He’s definitely glaring now. Even he can tell. He keeps thinking about that one day when Neal was six, and he came home from school with tear tracks on his face because he was wearing one red sock (with Mater, from Cars on it) and one blue (with Sully, from Monsters, Inc.) and a girl named Gina made fun of him. They’d tried to find matches for the red and blue socks that morning but couldn’t. Sometimes socks got lost. Sometimes you couldn’t afford to replace them.

Gold closes his eyes and makes a studious effort to calm himself. He’s only angry because it’s 8 a.m. and he wants to be in bed, still asleep.

“If it makes you feel better,” Archie says from across the table, sounding confused and contrite, “I’ll pick up some normal socks on my way home from work. And just wear these around the home.”

“No, don’t do that,” Gold says a little roughly. He returns to his pancakes, cutting them up only to push the plate away. “I’m just … it doesn’t matter. Don’t change your socks. I like them this way.”

Archie doesn’t need to voice his doubt for it to be heard.

“I like _you_ this way,” Gold clarifies. “Wearing plain clothes with colorful, mismatched socks. Don’t start wearing normal socks just because I’m grouchy in the morning.”

“Noted,” Archie says, smiling. “It wouldn’t be a big deal, though, to change them.”

“It would be,” Gold says. “You like wearing weird socks. I can’t just make you change who you are.”

“Gold,” Archie says, his smile growing bigger, “how pissed off would you be if I told you I only wear weird socks because your nose wrinkles when you see them, and I think the nose-wrinkle is cute?”

Gold stares at him, unblinking. Archie’s grin grows wider.

“Fuck off,” Gold tells him. “Go change your fucking socks.”


	3. Roller Coasters

They have to go three states over before Gold is willing to go to an amusement park with Archie; he’s convinced that one of his tenants will see him dressed casually, having fun, and lose all respect.

It’s been nearly a decade, actually, since Gold dressed like this in public. Shorts and a t-shirt. Granted, fashionable shorts and a fashionable t-shirt, but still. He opted out of bandages around his leg -- too conspicuous -- and chose a leg brace instead, just big enough to cover his scars.

Archie’s been talking about coming here for months; the park’s just added a new roller coaster, one that doesn’t break any records or offer anything new, really, but Archie’s excited about it nonetheless.

“I love theme parks,” he tells Gold in the car ride over. “My parents took me here every summer. Well, not to _this_ one, exactly -- we did come here _once_ , but it was always a different one every year.”

Gold hums and shifts uncomfortably in the passenger seat. He’s never been to an amusement park at all. He’s never even been to a carnival. He remembers when he was eight years old or so, he and Dad were living on a cold Scottish beach, and there was a fair set up right where the sand ended. He could see the Ferris wheel and the pretty lights, smell the food, hear the music. But he never went. It never even occurred to him that he could ask to go; the unspoken rule was that Daddy got all the money, whenever they had it, and if he chose to spend it on food, that was great, but if he decided to spend it on a game of roulette instead, that was fine, too.

“Which ride do you want to ride first?” Archie asks excitedly. “Have you ever been on one before? We can start small, with the Racer -- that one goes backward -- or, oh, we could go on the one where you hang from the cart in, like, these car seats, except there’s nothing below your feet except air! You’re not afraid of roller coasters, are you?”

“No,” Gold says. He has no idea if this is true or not.

“Guess I should’ve asked that before,” says Archie good-naturedly. They pull into the parking lot, at least a mile away from the entrance. The park looks huge; Gold feels dismay come swooping over him. He’s not going to last the whole day, not with his leg, but he’s not sure how to break that to Archie. The other man’s been talking all week about how many rides he wants to go on, which ones will have the shortest wait, which ones will be the most fun. Gold figures he’ll be pain-free for maybe the first few miles of walking, but after the first hour of waiting in line …

Archie has already unbuckled his seatbelt and exited the car. Gold huffs out a sigh, quick and light, and then joins Archie in the scorching heat of the parking lot.

“This is great,” Archie says, beaming. He spreads sunblock over his arms and face, then hands the bottle to Gold, who deposits it disdainfully in the backseat. Gold doesn’t burn. He tans. He assumed that was a given. “There’s hardly any people here today, the lines are gonna be so quick.”

“There’s a mile of cars between us and the front gate,” Gold says.

“Should we bring the cooler in with us?” Archie asks. “Or leave it here and come back to the parking lot for lunch? If we bring it in, we’ll have to put it in those cubby holes on all the rides and someone might steal it, but with your leg--”

Gold, who was all up for bringing the cooler until this point, visibly bristles. “We’ll leave it in the car,” he says firmly.

“Well, okay, but--”

“I think I’m capable of making it one mile to the car,” Gold says. “I have a limp, not a ball and chain.” He tries to scale back the venom in his voice, just because this is Archie and he likes Archie, but he doesn’t quite succeed.

“Okay,” Archie says brightly. “Buckle my fanny pack for me?"

"I'm not going to do that."

"Well, let’s get going, then." Archie buckles the fanny pack himself and Gold glances around quickly to make sure no one is laughing and pointing at them. "Do you wanna visit the gift shop afterward? It’s not an amusement park trip if you don’t get a weird stuffed animal from the shop.”

Gold just grunts. The park is uncomfortably crowded, even on a Tuesday. Families with six kids and three cameras stagnate just outside the front gate, taking pictures with the park mascot, a garish neon orange creature that doesn’t seem to have any basis in biology. Two little boys run around the mascot’s legs, calling each other names they probably learned from Spongebob, giggling so hard they can’t see where they’re going. Suddenly, Gold finds his glare softening a bit; his heart is hurting far more than his leg.

Archie presents their tickets to the gate guard and they get waved through. Gold has already lost all sense of direction; he hands the tacky little map to Archie, unable to tell which roller coaster is which, and tries to stand out of everyone’s way while Archie decides where to go.

“To the Corkscrew?” Archie ponders out loud. “Or maybe to the Twist and Shout?”

Neither of those sound fun. Gold’s eyes land on a restaurant nearby, painted bright yellow and adorned with cartoon characters he vaguely recognizes. Why would anyone want food in a place like this?

“The Twist and Shout,” Archie decides. He grabs Gold’s hand and sets off at a fast pace that he quickly mediates when Gold stumbles and nearly falls. “It’s a new one,” Archie informs him. “They just installed it three years ago, so if we came when it was new, it would’ve been hours before we got on. But now everyone’s used to it, so the lines are shorter.”

“Grand,” Gold says. The park is full of so many buildings, so many paths, so many winding turns. It feels like they’ve gone five miles when really they haven’t even gone one. They’ve passed restaurants and kiddy rides like you see at local carnivals, little playgrounds with water spouts built into them, and a few dozen overflowing trash bins.

“There,” Archie says, pointing to a sign up ahead. It reads _Twist and Shout_ , but the roller coaster behind it looks more like an expensive version of the Viking Boat they passed over by the Flintstones Diner. Gold joins the line, unimpressed. It’s only a twenty-minute wait, and Gold turns away from the roller coaster, ignoring the whooshes and the screams of passengers while Archie gawks, oohs, and ahhs.

It’s almost their turn when Gold finally deigns to watch the roller coaster.

This is no simple Viking Ship. The cars on the Twist and Shout hang underneath the track instead of above it, and when it swings back and forth, going higher and higher, the cars twist upside down and rocket forward until five or more are hanging off the edge of the track. Gold feels his stomach drop; this is _insane_. What the hell is keeping those cars attached? What if they fly off at the end?

A train of cars comes to a stop in the loading area. People, mostly teenagers but some adults and some kids, unbuckle their seatbelts and trot out into the park, laughing and chattering away. Archie pulls Gold forward, into one of the very first seats. He takes Gold’s cane over to the cubbies before joining him.

“Ready?” Archie asks, grinning. Gold does his best to muster up a smile. When the attendant comes around to check their seatbelts, Gold has to quash the urge to get up and leave. Instead, he squares his shoulders and tries to look calm.

Their car moves forward, starting to swing, slow at first. Gold can feel his stomach fluttering; a stream of words are clenched behind his teeth. Suddenly, he wants to babble to Archie that this is his first roller coaster, that yes, they _do_ need to start small, that maybe they should get off and go try those smaller ones he mentioned, the Racers. But it’s too late, the coaster is already in motion.

When the cars go upside-down the first time, Archie lets out a loud, booming laugh that covers up Gold’s cry of fright. But when their car goes out beyond the track, Gold clenches Archie’s hand tight and hides his face in the other man’s shoulder, his whole body tense and trembling, and there’s no possible way he can pass that off as a trick of the wind when this is over.

* * *

“Was that too scary?” Archie asks, all concern when they’re walking away from the Twist and Shout. Gold scoffs even as his face heats up.

“It wasn’t--”

“It was scary,” Archie cuts him off. He can tell Archie wants to smile, but the other man has the decency to hide it (he knows how sensitive Gold is, knows the other man hates to be made fun of). “I was scared to death. They’re _supposed_ to be scary, it’s just that this is your first one, so--”

“I’m fine,” Gold huffs. He’s still shaking a little.

“Are you sure? Do you wanna take a break? We can get something to eat, or just … sit down, if you want …”

Gold’s first instinct is to protest, to insist that they go on, but his legs feel ten times weaker than they were before he got on the roller coaster, and though he keeps glaring, he allows Archie to lead him to a bench. He sits stiffly, his shoulder pressed against Archie’s, trying to find some comfort without looking to needy.

“You can lean into me,” Archie says, his voice neutral. Gold’s inhibitions break into little pieces and he does so almost instantly, grateful that at least he can hide his blush in Archie’s shirt. Archie is warm and soft and good. Slowly, the trembling starts to subside.

“Better?” Archie asks. Gold doesn’t respond; he sits up straight again and stares at the ground like he didn’t hear the question. “What do you wanna do next?” Archie asks him.

Gold hesitates, his eyes moving from one thing to the next, none of them particularly appealing. Finally, he tugs the map out from Archie’s fingers and unfolds it, examining the attractions there.

“Let’s go to this one,” he says, pointing to the newest roller coaster in the park.

“That one?” Archie says, eyebrows raised. “Are you sure.”

“Yes,” Gold says. Of course he’s sure. Archie’s been babbling about it for weeks.

“You’re gonna be okay? You don’t wanna try some smaller rides first?”

“I’ll be fine,” Gold says. He moves his cane to his right hand and stands, waiting for Archie to join him. The other man only does so after much hesitation, finally offering Gold a tentative smile.

_Try some smaller rides first_ , Gold thinks with a certain amount of sarcasm and affection mixed together. _They’re all small when you’re standing by the cubby holes refusing to get in the car._


	4. Disney shorts

“Archie? Are you crying?”

Gold moves away without thinking about it, perching on the edge of the couch like Archie’s tears are venomous. Even while crying, Archie thinks the combination of concern and wariness on Gold’s face is funny.

“I’m fine,” he says, voice choked. “I’m fine, it’s just --”

He gestures toward the TV screen. Gold’s eyes swivel toward it; the worry completely drops from his face, replaced by bafflement.

“You’re crying because of _this_?” he says, relaxing a little. “Archie, it’s a cartoon about a _clock_. Nothing sad has even happened yet.”

“The other clocks are mean to him,” Archie sniffles, wiping his eyes.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake …”

Gold pauses the movie and turns his unimpressed face toward Archie, waiting for him to calm down. It doesn’t take too long; even Archie has to admit, it’s kind of silly to cry over an animated clock.

“Better?” Gold asks, his finger hovering over the Play button.

“It wouldn’t kill you to be nicer every now and then, you know,” Archie says. He’s mostly teasing, and Gold takes it as such, but he can tell the other man is ruminating over those words as the cartoon plays. It’s never good when Gold takes him seriously on things like this. Gold gets … _weird_ when he tries to comfort people. It’s painful to watch.

“Sorry,” Gold says, five minutes into the next cartoon. “Next time I’ll try to be more … well.”

“Yeah,” Archie says. He tries to convey as much disinterest in the topic as possible; he doesn’t want another awkward heart-to-heart with Gold.

“I’m just never sure how to act,” Gold says. “That is to say, I don’t have many points of reference for …”

“Well,” says Archie, “maybe if you didn’t lock yourself in the bathroom to cry, you would have points of reference.”

Gold looks at him, startled. “I don’t lock myself in the bathroom to cry!”

“Gold, you literally did just that ten minutes ago,” Archie says, “when we were watching _The Little Matchgirl_.”

Gold’s face is carefully blank, refusing to give away weakness. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“The little girl started lighting matches,” Archie says, “and when she lit one and hallucinated that her grandma was helping her decorate a Christmas tree, you said ‘doesn’t she die at the end?’ and I said ‘yes,’ and you got up and locked yourself in the bathroom.”

“I wasn’t crying,” Gold says roughly. “I was brushing my teeth.”

“Right.”

“Well, even if I _were_ crying, at least it was over an actual human being, and not a clock!”

Archie rolls his eyes. “I cried over both. If you hadn’t locked yourself in the bathroom, you would have seen it. I was ugly-sobbing and everything.”

Gold hums his displeasure, pretending to focus on the TV.

“The worst part was when they faked you out,” Archie says. “You missed that part. First they show you the little girl’s dead body lying in the snow. And you’re like, ‘aww, oh now, she’d dead.’ But then her grandma comes out of nowhere--”

Gold’s jaw tightens.

“-- and she wakes the little girl up, and the little girl’s all happy, like ‘great! Grandma came to save me!’ So she jumps in Grandma’s arms and the two of them walk away … just to fade into nothingness. Leaving just the dead body behind.” Archie shakes his head mournfully. He’s teary-eyed from re-telling it.

“Right,” says Gold crisply, his own eyes suspiciously shiny. “Thanks for that. I always wanted a graphic play-by-play of how the little matchgirl died, Archie. Thank God someone’s out there doing the Lord’s work.”

“Always happy to help,” Archie says.


	5. Phones

Gold’s facial expression becomes inscrutable when Archie sets a new phone down in front of him.

“That had better be your new phone,” Gold says, already preparing to back away from the kitchen table.

“Nope,” says Archie. “Gold, I love your old-timey-ness. Really. But your pre-paid flip-phone makes it look like you just time-traveled back from 2005.”

“I don’t need this,” Gold says, pushing the new phone away. “The one I have is perfectly fine.”

“The one you have is falling apart,” Archie says, “and if you ever need to replace any part of it, you won’t be able to, because the only place that still sells these was probably abandoned when George Bush was still President. Just try this one out.”

He slides it back across the table to Gold. Gold glares at him for a moment, but eventually picks the phone up. He touches the screen tentatively, like he’s afraid it might break.

“How do I call people?” Gold murmurs, his eyes fixed on the screen.

“Go to the phone icon,” Archie says, moving around to look over Gold’s shoulder. “That one, there. You can type their number into the keyboard -- there -- or you can go to your contacts -- here --”

“This is too complicated,” Gold says, already frustrated. He tries to stand up but Archie just puts a hand on Gold’s shoulder and forces him back down, pushing in the other man’s chair.

“You’re not leaving until you catch up with modern technology,” Archie says. “It’s unfashionable for a man your age to use a flip-phone.”

“I don’t care about _fashion_ ,” Gold snarls.

“That is the biggest lie I’ve heard all month. Look, I downloaded some apps for you.”

He leans over Gold to open Candy Crush. Gold’s eyebrows furrow in confusion; when Archie hands him the phone, he takes it mostly because he doesn’t know what else to do.

Slowly, Gold reads the instructions and follows them, playing through one game. When a notification pops up to tell him ‘You won!!!’ he just looks at Archie helplessly.

“How do I turn this off?”

“Press the home button,” Archie says. Gold continues to stare at him. “The one on the bottom. On the phone, not on the screen.”

“Oh.”

“You can check your email, too,” Archie says brightly, directing Gold to the little icon shaped like an envelope. “Just hook it up -- uh, here, put in your username and password.”

“Why is this keyboard so small?” Gold grouses.

“Because it’s on a phone,” Archie says. He leans over Gold again to finish the email process. “There you go! There’s your inbox.”

“Grand,” says Gold, surveying the empty screen. “I’m glad we could share this momentous occasion.”

“Look, it’s not my fault you never e-mail anyone.”

“I e-mail people,” says Gold, offended. “I text people, too.”

Archie turns away to hide his smile. He takes a seat next to Gold. “Go to your contacts. I’m gonna give you my number.”

“I don’t want it,” Gold says brusquely. “You’re going to start texting me at work.”

“No, because when you’re at work, _I’m_ at work,” Archie says. “And unlike some of us, _I’m_ actually busy.” He motions for Gold to hand him the phone. “Give it here, I’ll put it in for you.”

Reluctantly, Gold hands it over.

“There,” says Archie. “May your adventure into the world of technology begin.”

* * *

“What are you snickering about?” Regina asks. Gold sweeps his phone away, tucking it into his pocket. When he looks up, his face is a perfect mix of confusion and surprise.

“Nothing,” he says.

* * *

_Beep beep beep._

Shit. Archie’s phone never goes off during a session -- he always keeps it on silent. But it’s beeping anyway, loud and obnoxious, in the middle of David Nolan’s monologue about how the German shepherd at the shelter has cysts.

“Sorry,” Archie says, rooting around for his phone. “Let me just --”

He unlocks the screen, viewing the text message for just a split second before tossing the phone over his shoulder in a moment of panic. David stares at him, eyes wide. Archie’s face is completely red.

Who knew Gold knew how to sext?

 

 


	6. Baking

This is a horrible idea. Archie has never baked before -- well, that’s a lie. One time he made a sweet-potato pie for a friend he had a crush on, but that didn’t end well. In fact, that ended with a lot of confused questions and frantic Googling. Is there supposed to be pie crust on top of the pie or just on the sides? Is sweet-potato pie a liquid or a solid? Can it be both?

It can’t be both.

But luckily, Archie has learned since then. Pies are too complicated; he should’ve started off with something simpler, something that anyone can make, something you can get the recipe for and just _start_ as soon as you get home.

A birthday cake.

(It isn’t Archie’s birthday. It’s not even _Gold’s_ birthday -- he’s not sure when Gold’s birthday is, though his theory is that it’s sometime in February. Gold feels like a Pisces.)

Either way, this birthday cake isn’t going well. Archie doesn’t have half the dishes he needs, and he’s not sure he followed the recipe right, and anyway, this cake looks like shit. It’s supposed to be chocolate. It looks like literal shit.

 _Maybe Gold will like it anyway_ , Archie thinks. God knows that man has a sweet tooth.

He cuts a slice (it promptly loses all shape and crumbles into a pile on the plate) and heads up to their bedroom, where Gold is trying to nap off a stressful day. Archie knocks maybe five times, as loudly and obnoxiously as he can, before barging into the room.

“I made cake!” he sings. He makes it all the way to the bed before Gold raises his head, drowsy and confused.

“Wha--?”

“Here, try some,” Archie says. He plops down next to Gold, making the mattress dip so that Gold nearly falls onto his lap. Grumbling under his breath and stretching like a cat, Gold slowly makes his way into a sitting position.

“Why did you make cake?” he asks.

“For you,” Archie says, grinning. “For your birthday, whenever it is. Try some.”

“My birthday’s in April,” Gold says. He takes the fork offered to him and tries to spoon a few collapsed cake molecules onto it.

“When in April?” Archie asks, his eyebrows furrowing. “Are you an Aries or a Taurus?”

“What does it matter?”

“It matters because you are definitely not an Aries,” Archie says. “And you’ll have to do a lot of convincing for me to accept you as a Taurus -- well, what’re you waiting for? Eat it.”

Carefully, Gold takes a bite of the cake. There’s a long pause as he chews; then, without commenting, he puts the fork back on the plate and rolls over, pulling the blankets over his head. Archie just watches him, unable to comprehend this reaction.

“Gold?” he says.

“It was great,” Gold says, voice muffled. “Now go away, I’m tired.”

“But -- wait --”

“Goodnight,” Gold says.

“But don’t you want more cake?”

The pause is even longer this time. Finally, Gold peeks out from under the blankets, his eyes hooded and sleepy.

“Archie, it was very sweet of you to make me a cake,” he says carefully. “Especially since I wasn’t exactly … _gentle_ to you, when I came home.”

“This compliment sounds like it’s gonna turn into an insult,” Archie says.

“It is. Very quickly -- Archie, that is the worst cake I’ve ever had in my life. It tastes like shit.”

“Yeah,” Archie admits. “I mean, there’s a reason I made _you_ eat it, instead of just doing it myself. Do you want some more?”

“Fuck off,” Gold says, hiding himself under the blankets. Archie can hear him smiling.

“Okay, but are you _sure_ you don’t want more?”

“ _Yes_.”

Chuckling, Archie deposits the still-full plate of cake on the bedside table and scoots over so his thigh is against … well, some part of Gold’s body. Maybe his back. It’s hard to tell with the blankets on.

“What happened today, anyway?” he asks. Gold groans.

“I told you already.”

“No, you didn’t. You just said ‘do I look like I want a fucking hug?’ and came up here.” Archie tries to pull the blankets away from Gold’s face, but the other man holds on tight. “By the way, you _did_ look like you wanted a hug. Just so you know.”

With a sigh, Gold releases his grip and allows Archie to pull the blankets away.

“It wasn’t anything new,” he says. “One of my tenants stopped by to demand an extension. I told him no.”

Archie nods and waits for more, but that appears to be all Gold is willing to divulge. “Did he get … violent?” Archie asks, unsure if he wants to know the answer.

“Not violent,” Gold says neutrally. “Just loud.”

Gold hates loudness. The one time Archie ever shouted at him, he burst into tears; it was a moment of extreme embarrassment for both of them, because Gold is rarely emotional. But he has to deal with loudness almost every day, typically from angry tenants who are a foot taller than him and outweigh him by a hundred pounds (but sometimes also from Mayor Mills).

“What’d you do?” Archie asks. “In response, I mean.”

“Nothing,” Gold says. “I waited until he was finished speaking. And then I told him to leave.”

“You didn’t cry, though?”

Gold bristles. “No.”

“Okay. I’m just asking because--”

“I know. I didn’t cry. I don’t cry in front of my _tenants_ , they’d think I was --” Gold hesitates for a bit, looking for an appropriately weak-sounding analogy. “Well, they’d think I was you. No offense.”

“None taken,” Archie says. “The world would be a far better place if everyone’s landlords cried and gave them breaks now and then.”

Gold snorts. "Right."

"Now eat some more cake," Archie says. "It'll make you feel better."


	7. Clumsiness

“I tripped,” Gold says. Archie hardly hears him; he leads Gold to the couch in the living room and prods the other man until he takes a seat. There’s a dark bruise wrapped around Gold’s neck and a cut on his forehead. Archie brushes the other man’s hair back to get a better look; he feels Gold lean into his palm, eyes closing for a moment.

He really shouldn’t be closing his eyes. Archie pulls away -- “I’ll be right back!” -- and trots to the bathroom, where a first-aid kit has sat, largely unused, since the last time Gold got injured. He jogs back to the living room with it, letting it _thump_ to the ground by Gold’s feet.

“Do you know where you are?” Archie asks, prying the lid off the bottle of hydrogen peroxide. Gold lets out an annoyed hum.

“I walked here, didn’t I?”

“Then tell me where you are.”

“I’m at your house,” Gold says. Archie upends the bottle onto a cotton ball and then brushes Gold’s hair back again. He presses the cotton ball to the cut on Gold’s forehead; no matter how many times they do this, Archie always expects Gold to hiss and flinch away, but Gold never does. He doesn’t even blink.

“Do you know who I am?” Archie asks.

“Archibald Hopper.”

“Do you know who _you_ are?”

“King James.”

Archie gives him a look; Gold gives it right back, but he gives in.

“I’m Mr. Gold.”

“No first name?” Archie asks, peeling the wrapper off a Bandaid.

“Must’ve lost it in the last concussion,” Gold says. He holds still while Archie applies the Bandaid; it’s one of the clear, water-proof ones, so he can wash his hair without it falling off. And also go about his day without a glaringly obvious bandage on his head.

“Okay,” Archie says, pulling back a little. “Now let me see your neck.”

Gold freezes, then seems to realize that freezing is a very suspect action and relaxes instead. Archie cocks an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything; he loosens Gold’s tie and undoes the first few buttons on his shirt so Archie can get a better look at the bruise.

“So,” he says, “you tripped, right?”

“Right,” Gold says.

 _And landed with your neck in somebody’s fist?_ Archie thinks. Out loud, he just says, “Okay,” using the same gentle voice he uses in therapy when someone’s crying. Gold’s sarcasm is going strong, but he still looks a little pale and shaky; his hands are clasped tight in his lap.

“Hold your hair out of the way for me,” Archie says softly. He grabs a tin of salve from the first-aid kit -- he had to order this online after the last time Gold “tripped.”

Gold scoops his hair up and away from his neck, staring off into the distance while Archie rubs the salve on his bruise. After a good thirty seconds, Archie wipes his hands off on a paper towel and screws the lid back onto the tin.

“All done,” he says. He slides the first-aid tin away with his foot so he can take a seat next to Gold. Archie turns the TV on for background noise and a bit of light; beside him, Gold stays very still for at least a minute before letting out a quiet sigh and bending over to remove his shoes. When he sits back up, Archie takes his hand and they sit in silence, watching images flicker across the screen. Gold lays his head on Archie’s shoulder, eyes sliding closed.

“You know,” says Archie, his voice soft, “if someone is hurting you, you can always tell me.”

For a moment, it’s almost like Gold didn’t hear him. But soon the other man is pulling away, his eyes cast to the floor, his face carefully blank. He seems lost for a moment, purposeless; then he sees his shoes and puts them back on, avoiding Archie’s gaze.

“I fell,” he says firmly, talking to the floor. “And I didn’t come here so you could doubt me and try to have a heart-to-heart. I just wanted to _see_ you.”

He seems to be holding back most of what he wants to say, chewing the words before they get the chance to come out. Archie doesn’t know what to do; he just sits there, watching Gold put on his shoes. He only gets up when Gold heads for the door; the other man stops there, clearly warring with himself.

“Gold--” Archie starts, full of apologies. Feeling ridiculous, because he’s not sure he’s in the wrong here.

“I wanted to talk to a friend,” Gold says roughly, not meeting Archie’s eyes. “Not a _therapist_.”

Archie can feel the dismay that spreads over his face; he can’t think of anything to say as Gold walks out the door.

 

 


	8. Depression

Gold is the last to fall asleep each night, and the first to wake. It’s Archie’s snoring that does it; sometimes Gold will lie awake for two hours, trying to drown out the sound of Archie’s snores. Other nights, it doesn’t bother him at all.

Archie’s a sound sleeper. He doesn’t toss and turn much -- maybe once a month he’ll steal the covers, but that’s all. And he falls asleep quickly, too; it never takes him more than ten minutes to start snoring. Gold can’t remember ever falling asleep that quickly; he remembers staying up for hours as a child, staring into the darkness with itchy eyes, trying to think of a good bedtime story to keep himself entertained. He remembers sitting up in bed as a teenager and looking out the window, trying to count the stars -- as a kid, he’d wanted to be an astronaut, but it had never seemed like a viable option.

As an adult, he just lies in bed with his eyes on the clock, waiting for the minutes to change. He tells himself not to do this -- it just makes sleep harder -- but inevitably, an overwhelming feeling of curiosity will come over him, and he just has to look at the clock. Has to know how many potential hours of sleep he has left.

Archie sleeps the whole night through. His snores never get softer, either -- sometimes they even rise in strength and frequency until Gold swears he’s never heard any other sound in his life. Just those snores.

At some point in the early morning -- one a.m. if he’s lucky, three a.m. most of the time, and five a.m. if God really hates him, _which he does_ \-- Gold will fall asleep. And at some point before his alarm goes off at seven -- either an hour or five minutes -- he’ll wake up again, tired but ready to start the day. By the time Archie gets up, Gold is already gone -- showered, dressed, and making breakfast.

Most days.

Today, Archie wakes up to the foreign feeling of Gold sleeping on his chest. It’s incredibly pleasant; Gold is small and always cold, but he somehow manages to give off heat like a furnace. Like a small dog. A toy poodle (Archie must never speak that thought aloud). And he seems to actually be asleep for once: eyes closed, face slack … drool coming out of his mouth.

Archie decides not to mention that later. It’s never fun for anyone when Gold’s embarrassed.

Carefully, he reaches across to the bedside table and grabs his phone, turning off the alarm before it goes off. He eases away from Gold, careful not to wake the other man, and heads into the bathroom, hoping that the sounds he makes stumbling around on tile won’t wake Gold up, knowing they probably will. After a shower that lasts more than thirty minutes, Archie comes out and finds Gold still sleeping.

Now, this is just weird. Archie stares at Gold for a long moment, completely nonplussed. He gets dressed slowly, pulling clothes off the hanger without taking his eyes off Gold, subconsciously waiting for some sign that Gold is dead or seriously ill. Although to be fair, the other man looks perfectly fine. He’s rolled over onto his stomach, basking in the warmth from where Archie was lying, fast asleep -- and it’s almost 8 o’clock.

Well, this can’t go on any longer.

“Gold?” Archie says, moving forward. He shakes Gold’s arm, gently at first, and then a little harder. It’s weird for Gold to be so relaxed. “Hey. You need to wake up.”

Gold’s eyes crack open. He makes brief eye contact with Archie and then rolls away.

“Gold!” Archie says, exasperated. “Come on, it’s almost eight.”

“Too bad,” Gold mumbles.

“Aren’t you going to work?”

There’s a mild pause. Gold’s voice is almost inaudible when he says, “Fuck work. I’m sleeping.”

Archie wants to laugh, but he thinks it would be mostly from shock, not from humor. His voice is already embarrassingly frantic-sounding. “It’s rent day, isn’t it?”

Gold just groans.

“Right. That’s a yes. Come on, get dressed -- people will think you’ve gone soft. Or whatever it is you’re always worrying about.”

“Don’t use my anxiety against me,” Gold grumbles. He hides his head under the blankets. “Turn the light off. I’m not going to work today.”

He must be ill. There’s no other explanation for it -- Gold simply doesn’t miss work otherwise. Sighing, Archie walks around to Gold’s side of the bed. He reaches under the blankets, trying to feel Gold’s forehead, but Gold catches his wrist before he can.

“Are you sick?” Archie asks, already knowing the answer.

“Do I have to be?” Gold shoots back. “No one’s going to fire me if I take a day off, Archie. What, do you want me to call in to my _boss_?”

“Well, I just--”

“Hand me my phone, dear, I’ll just make a quick call to _myself_.”

Archie almost stops himself from rolling his eyes, then realizes Gold is still hiding under the blankets and can’t see him if he does. “You _never_ skip work. I’m just worried, is all.”

“Well, your worry is slowly but surely _waking me up_.”

“Sorry,” Archie says, but he doesn’t move to leave. He decides to just be silent; with some of his more surly patients, silence is the only way to draw them out -- it gets to them, eventually, and they’ll start talking. This rarely works with Gold, but after a while, the other man sighs and sits up, glaring at Archie.

“I’m tired,” he says. “And sad, for whatever fucking reason.” He says the word ‘sad’ like it’s a hideous, shameful thing. There’s so much disgust in his voice that Archie nearly flinches. “I don’t know. I’m not ill. Not physically. I just … don’t really want to get out of bed today.” He stares at the wall, at the exact spot where Archie has contemplated putting a night-light. “Is that okay?”

His eyes meet Archie’s, unusually open and troubled. There’s a feeling in Archie’s chest, like his heart and lungs are being melted like wax. This is a feeling he’s learned very well over the last few years -- he calls it the ‘Gold Has Just Said Something Very Sad and Doesn’t Seem to Realize’ feeling.

“That’s fine,” he says, his voice soft. Gold looks away, seeming to deflate.

“Good,” he says quietly. He fluffs the pillows up, almost as an afterthought. “Grand. Have fun at work, then.”

“I will,” says Archie. He doesn’t want to leave yet, so he searches for something to say. “If you wake up before I get home, try … uh, watching some cartoons, yeah? Like some Disney movies you liked when you were a kid, or, uh, Superman. That always makes me feel better.”

“I didn’t watch any cartoons when I was a kid,” Gold says flatly.

“Oh.”

 _Of course you didn’t_ , Archie thinks.

Neither of them speaks. Gold glances at the clock, where the minutes are ticking by, closer and closer to eight. Archie wonders, all things considered, if he can count this day as a symptom of depression -- but he recognizes, on some level, that even if he brought it up, Gold probably wouldn’t seek help.

“I love you,” Gold says finally, lying back down. His face is closed off again, but a little bit of weariness shows through. “You should get going.”

“Okay,” says Archie. “Love you, too.”

 _Nothing you can do_ , he tells himself as he leaves. _Nothing you can do._

 

 


	9. Umbrellas

“What did you do before I came along to hold your umbrella?” Archie wonders aloud. His voice is barely audible over the sound of rain, and for a moment he thinks Gold didn’t hear him -- the other man is concentrating too hard on avoiding puddles. “I mean, if you _don’t_ carry an umbrella, you’re gonna get soaked,” Archie says. “This is Maine, after all. But if you _do_ carry an umbrella, then you have to carry it in your _left_ hand, because of your cane, and that means both your hands are full. How would you open doors? You’d have to put one or the other down. And you can’t put down your _cane_ , so you’d end up getting soaked regardless -- why bring the umbrella in the first place?”

Gold just hums.

“Do you even own an umbrella?” Archie asks. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you outside in the rain. Did you just stay home before, or …?”

“I drove, Archie,” Gold says with a ghost of a smile.

“Oh. I forgot you can drive.”

They walk in silence for a moment; then Archie’s eyebrows furrow and he starts to frown. “Wait, how come you never drive anywhere, otherwise? Doesn’t it hurt your leg to walk?”

“Yes,” says Gold tersely.

“Are you a bad driver?” Archie asks. Then, before Gold can answer, he adds, “Oh! Is it hard to drive on the right side of the road? In Scotland, they drive on the left side, right?”

“I didn’t drive in Scotland,” Gold says. "I lived in the city."

“So you learned here?”

“Yes.”

“Who taught you?” Archie asks. Gold hesitates, pretending to watch the ground so as not to get his shoes wet.

“Well, ah …”

“My God,” Archie says, grinning. “You’re blushing. Who was it? Tell me immediately.”

Gold glares up at him and Archie bites back on a laugh. “It was … it’s not important. It was just … someone I dated.”

“ _Someone_ ,” Archie repeats, unable to stop smiling. Gold never talks about his exes. Maybe he thinks Archie will get jealous -- and maybe Archie will, he can’t say for sure -- but right now, imagining a younger Gold having a crush on someone is just cute.

“Yes,” Gold says. “ _Someone_. That’s all you need to know.”

“Boy or girl?” Archie asks. “If other, please specify.”

“Shut up.”

“Oh, come on! Tell me, I’m dying to know!”

Gold’s blush has reached his ears, a very rare sight. He scowls at the ground. “A woman,” he says. Archie stops walking, forcing Gold to either pause and stay under the umbrella or continue and get soaked.

“Named …?” Archie prompts.

“Named Cora,” Gold says. His face is an awe-inspiring mix of embarrassment and grumpiness.

“What’d she look like?” Archie asks eagerly.

“Like …” Gold hesitates again, scratching his nose. “Well, like … ah, a bit like Regina.” He claps a hand on Archie’s shoulder almost before he’s finished speaking and tries to force the bigger man to continue walking. But Archie doesn’t budge.

“ _Wait_ ,” says Archie, his eyebrows furrowing. He misses the brief look of dismay that flashes over Gold’s face. “Isn’t Regina’s _mom_ named Cora?”

“Hm?” Gold says innocently.

“Oh my _God_.”

“We should really get going,” Gold says, unconvincingly casual. “Don’t want to be late--”

“You _didn’t_.”

“ _Archie_ \--”

“You dated _Regina’s mom_ ,” Archie says. “Oh my God. You -- Gold, _isn’t she_ \--?”

“She’s a control freak,” Gold says glumly (and ‘control freak’ was not at all what Archie was going to say, but he lets it slide). “Yes. It didn’t end well.”

Archie’s grin disappears completely. “Oh. Uh, I’m sorry.” He realizes that Gold is still waiting, somewhat impatiently, for Archie to start walking again. Archie takes a few steps, unsure what to say; there is a long moment of silence before he decides to ask what he really wants to know. “How did you meet? How did it end? Did she already have Regina, or--?”

Okay, so there are a lot of things he really wants to know.

“We met at a parent night at the school,” Gold says neutrally. “Both of us were married. She told me her husband was abusing her and I believed her -- we made plans to run away, with the kids. But really, she just wanted me out of town.”

“What’d she do?” Archie asks. Gold lets out a quiet sigh.

“She called my wife while Neal and I were at the rendezvous point. Brought the wrath of hell down upon me.”

“Your … wife …?” Archie starts, then hesitates, not sure how to ask this question. Or even what the question is. But Gold answers him anyway, staring down at the sidewalk.

“She’s the reason I can’t hold an umbrella,” he says, clutching his cane.

“Oh,” Archie says.

He decides not to ask anymore questions about Gold’s exes.


	10. Cuddling

“Come cuddle with me,” Archie commands, beckoning from his end of the couch. There’s a momentary pause as Gold looks up at him, face blank. It’s what Archie calls his “look of consideration.” In reality, Gold is probably still processing whatever book he’s reading.

“No,” Gold says. He rests his cheek on his hand -- or rather, on the too-big sweater sleeve that contains his hand, presumably, _somewhere_ \-- and keeps reading. Archie watches him for a moment, debating whether or not it’s worth it to fight for cuddles. Gold is wearing pajamas even though bedtime is hours away -- that’s rare, and Archie likes it, and he should carefully weigh the consequences of picking a fight right now if he wants to have more pre-bedtime pajama nights. Plus, Gold’s all curled up and just plain adorable-looking. Well, adorable-looking to Archie. Would cuddling _really_ be necessary?

Yes.

“Look, Gold,” Archie says. “We both know how this goes. I ask to cuddle, you say no. But really, you want to cuddle just as badly as I do. You just can’t admit it, because you want people to think you’re all cool and distant and you hate love.”

Gold stares at him blankly, seeming unimpressed.

“So I’m going to beg you, and you’re going to say no, and I’m going to beg you again,” Archie says, rolling his eyes. “And eventually, we’ll have argued enough for it to seem like you’re giving in out of annoyance, and your reputation will remain intact. I say we just skip it all and go straight to cuddling.”

He holds his arms out in a welcoming gesture. Gold’s eyes flicker between each arm and then back to his book.

He flips the page.

 _Okay_ , Archie thinks. _Different strategy_.

“What’re you reading?” he asks.

“A self-help book,” Gold says drily. Archie blinks rapidly, taken aback.

“A self-help book? About what?”

Gold’s gaze slides over to him. “How to deal with partners who invade your personal space.”

Archie laughs, too startled to keep it in. “You liar! What’re you really reading?”

Smirking, Gold shows him the cover, simultaneously stretching out his bad leg so that his foot is touching Archie’s thigh. The title of the book has been covered up with a handwritten post-it note reading ‘How to Deal With Partners Who Invade Your Personal Space.’

Archie shakes his head. “Okay. You win -- I don’t know _how_ you plan this far ahead, I didn’t even plan on asking you to cuddle.”

“You always ask,” Gold says, suppressing a laugh. He reads for a few minutes, the room silent except for the TV. Slowly and carefully, hoping the gesture will seem casual to Gold, Archie grabs the other man’s foot and pulls it onto his lap.

Gold doesn’t seem to notice.

“Lovely weather we’re having,” Archie says. Gold doesn’t answer for a while; then his eyebrows furrow and he looks up with a frown.

“It’s been snowing all week.”

“Has it?” says Archie. “I hadn’t noticed. Your laughter is so bright and warm it’s felt positively sunny.”

The crease between Gold’s eyebrows just gets deeper.

“I haven’t been --” he starts, but that’s when Archie grips his ankle tight with one hand and starts tickling with the other. Gold jerks hard, but he’s not able to get away; in his last moment of self-control, he covers his face with the book so Archie can’t see him giggling.

“I can still _hear_ you, you know,” Archie says, unable to keep from smiling. Gold doesn’t answer, too busy gasping for breath and trying to get away.

“Stop!” he says, barely audible between giggles. Archie just grins and keeps running his fingers over the sole of Gold’s foot. “Archie -- stop --”

Laughing, Archie lets go and sits back. For a moment, Gold just lies there, catching his breath and still giggling. Then he quiets down, presumably getting himself under control. Within a few seconds, he removes the book from his face to glare at Archie.

“Oh, don’t even try,” Archie says. “Even you can’t pull off a glare when you’ve just been tickled.”

“I can try,” says Gold stubbornly. “I’ve got plenty of hatred to support it.”

“Right.”

“You doubt me?” Gold asks, raising his eyebrows.

“Oh no, I’m sure you do.”

Gold grumbles under his breath.

“What was that?” Archie asks. Gold points an accusatory finger at him.

“I said you’ve got no right patronizing me when I’ve just been assaulted for refusing to …” He makes a face.

“Cuddle?” Archie suggests.

Gold makes an even worse face. “In another life,” he says, “you’d be put in stocks for that.”

“Like you were ever _out_ of them, _in another life_ ,” Archie retorts. With a carefully-sculpted semblance of dignity, Gold picks up his book and continues reading.

“We are never cuddling again,” he says.


	11. Showers

“No,” Gold says firmly. “No.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

There’s nothing to follow “because.” Gold has made it explicitly clear, through the course of many arguments, that when he’s feeling stubborn, the word “because” is a complete sentence.

“At least tell me why,” Archie pleads. He reaches behind him and bats the shower curtain away so he can turn off the nozzle. Gold crosses his arms tightly and glares at the floor, where Archie’s clothes are lying in a pile.

“Please put your trousers back on,” Gold says.

“Why?” Archie asks, his voice coming out sharper than he intended. “Does my nudity offend you?”

Gold just averts his eyes. It’s hard not to be snippy right now -- it took all of Archie’s courage to do this, even though he put on a light-hearted front. He just never expected Gold to say no.

“We’ve had sex before,” Archie says, continuing a very one-sided argument. Gold’s glare grows deadlier. “I just don’t see what the big deal is.”

“I don’t want to shower with you,” Gold says simply. “I don’t see why _that’s_ a big deal, either.”

“Because I’m already self-conscious enough as it is!” Archie says. His voice goes shrill at the end and he bends over to pick up his clothes, hoping that his blush will be gone by the time he stands up.

“I don’t see _why_ ,” Gold says. He opens his mouth to say something more, but seems to think better of it.

“What?” Archie snaps. “What were you gonna say?”

He can hear his own hostility -- it’s embarrassing, but he can’t seem to stop it. There’s a war inside him, a mixture of voices saying “back off, it’s not his fault, you’re being unreasonable” and “no, you deserve to be mad, you were really looking forward to this.”

Gold is clearly warring with himself as well.

“Well, it’s not like --” he says, and then cuts himself off, one hand coming up to cover his mouth.

“ _What_?” Archie says again, now more exasperated than mad. Gold’s eyes fix on him, flashing with anger.

“Stop yelling at me,” he says coolly. Archie’s voice is almost strangled by outrage; his stutter picks up strength, like it always does when he’s upset.

“I’m not _y-yelling_ at you! Jesus, Gold, a-all I wanted was to take a _shower_ with you! It’s _normal_ , this is something c-couples _do_ \--”

“Why are you so angry?” Gold asks, as if he’s not unreasonably angry as well. Archie feels like tearing his hair out.

“Why are _you_?”

There’s a long pause. Gold has a dangerous, closed-off look on his face -- that’s the way he looks when he’s on the defensive and ready to strike.

“I remember once, you told me anger was a secondary emotion,” he says. “So what’s your primary emotion right now?”

The fact that _Gold_ is the one talking about emotions is so ridiculous that Archie doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. And he _certainly_ doesn’t want to answer the question -- but Gold keeps staring at him, and the high waves of anger are starting to fade. If Archie hadn’t been so mad to begin with, he probably would have asked Gold the same question.

“I don’t know,” he says finally, but he knows that answer isn’t good enough. “Hurt.”

Another pause. Gold’s features have softened a little, though he’s still got one hand hovering over his mouth.

“Why?” he asks. Archie looks down at the bathroom floor, feeling his blush come back.

“I don’t look as good as you,” he says. “Naked, I mean. Well, with clothes on too. I just … I don’t know, I was feeling nervous about it, and I -- when you said no, I took it personally.”

He glances up at Gold, but the other man is also staring at the floor. He seems lost in thought; eventually, though, he huffs and shakes his head.

“Well, we’re on the same page, at least.”

Archie stares at him, waiting for an explanation, but Gold looks embarrassed just to have spoken. And Archie’s not stupid -- his brain makes the connection quickly enough.

“Your leg?” he asks. Surprise passes over Gold’s face for just a moment before he banishes it, looking abashed.

“Yeah.”

Archie glances at it, trying to imagine what it looks like without the bandages that are always wrapped around it. Gold seems to guess his train of thought.

“It’s not pretty,” he says. “I thought … well, I know you … you wouldn’t … _mind_ , if you were to see it. Because you’re unspeakably kind.”

Archie smiles.

“ _Disgustingly_ kind,” Gold corrects himself. The smile vanishes. “I know you wouldn’t say anything. You’d probably develop a fucking scar fetish just to please me. I don’t know why the thought of showing you sca--”

He breaks off and looks away from Archie as his cheeks turn red. Archie stares at him, his face feeling uncomfortably tight.

“Scared you so much?” Archie guesses, finishing the sentence. Gold looks at him with something that can only be described as horror before he gets his face under control. “You don’t have to say it if you don’t want to,” Archie says. “Everyone gets scared, though. It’s not always rational, but …”

He shrugs. A part of him -- a large part -- wants to pull Gold into a hug. But a hug wouldn’t be mutually beneficial here; Archie tries not to psychoanalyze Gold, since they’re dating, but he’s vaguely aware of the fact that Gold isn’t at a stage in life where hugs comfort him. Intimacy will only be an option for Gold after a lot of hard work and tears.

And Archie knew that.

And he tried to force it, anyway.

He’s suddenly overwhelmed by guilt; Archie stares down at his bare feet, feeling his cheeks turn red again, and he hears himself mumble some excuse to get Gold out of the bathroom so they could both lick their wounds in private. Gold doesn’t question him; he seems grateful for the opportunity to escape.

Archie showers on his own.


	12. Shyness

“You’re drooling,” Archie whispers while Gold is sleeping. The other man doesn’t stir. “You’re lying in a literal puddle of your own drool.”

This isn’t quite true -- or if it is, it’s a very small, almost nonexistent puddle. But Archie likes to make fun of Gold on the rare occasion where he’s awake and Gold is asleep. It’s too easy for Archie to lose a teasing match when they’re both awake -- Archie snores, and loudly, and snoring is always worse than drool.

Besides, if Gold were awake to hear him, he’d be mortified, and it was such a hassle to deal with Gold when he was embarrassed. It seemed like the most innocent things could set him off; he’d once sworn he was going to leave town forever because he’d walked outside wearing shoes that didn’t match his suit. And he’d stayed in bed for days after Regina tripped him in the diner and kicked his cane away so he couldn’t reach it -- all on accident, she swore.

Archie couldn’t blame Gold for being embarrassed over that one. But one instance of real humiliation didn’t erase the hundreds of tiny things that Gold thought were earth-shattering.

He’d made accidental eye contact with Thomas Weger twice in one hour at the diner one day, and he still refused to collect Weger’s rent personally because of it. And Archie vividly recalled a day, years before they started dating, when he’d seen Gold struggling to open a door with his cane in one hand and a file folder in the other. Gold had ended up dropping the folder and papers had caught on the wind and flown everywhere, and Gold had just turned red and walked away, not even bothering to gather the papers again.

This type of easy embarrassment had made their relationship more difficult than it needed to be on more than one occasion. Gold found feelings - whether positive or negative - to be soundly mortifying. When someone flirted with him, he turned into a red-faced, stuttering mess. When Archie brought up sex, he was met with a horrified stare. Hugging and cuddling were  _ only _ to be initiated by Archie, never by Gold. When he needed comfort, the most he would allow himself was to touch Archie’s arm or shoulder, never more.

But it didn’t matter. Archie was good at initiating.

He put his head under the blankets, wiggling further down on the mattress, so that his legs were hanging off the bed. Gold was still breathing deeply and steadily, unaware of his partner’s sudden change in position. Beneath the blankets, Archie hooked his fingers in the waistband of Gold’s pajama pants and started tugging them down, bringing the boxers with them.

Gold was already hard, his penis flush against his stomach. Archie raised his head a little to peek at Gold’s face - definitely asleep.

_ Must be having a really good dream _ , Archie thought. He leaned forward, his lips barely an inch from Gold’s penis.

Then Archie moved his head up several inches and gave Gold a raspberry. Gold startled awake with a shout, his legs coming up and twisting around Archie in a futile attempt to jump out of bed. Archie burst out giggling; he lowered his head and muffled the sound in Gold’s stomach, earning himself a glare.

“ _ Not _ a good way to wake up,” Gold snapped. He tried to shift away and then froze, staring at Archie with wide, scandalized eyes. “Am I wearing trousers?” he asked.

Archie gave him an innocent look. “You looked like you were having a pretty steamy dream,” he said. “I figured I’d help you out a little.”

He rocked up and down for a moment, feeling Gold’s penis rub against his chest. Gold’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment, then opened again in another glare.

“I wasn’t having that sort of dream,” he said.

“It’s fine if you were,” said Archie, rocking faster and grinning. “Everyone has wet dreams.”

“Well, I wasn’t.”

“Then why were you so turned on?” Archie asked, smiling mischievously. He stopped rocking just so he could wrap a hand around Gold, watching the other man’s pupils dilate.

“I’m  _ not _ turned on,” Gold said. Archie raised his eyebrows and looked meaningfully between Gold’s legs. “Okay, I am  _ now _ ,” Gold said, irritated. “But I wasn’t when I woke up. I just had to…”

He cut himself off, cheeks turning a delicious shade of pink. 

_ There’s that shyness again _ , Archie thought. He let his breath ghost over Gold’s penis and decided to play dumb.

“Had to what?” he asked. He gripped Gold harder and heard his breath catch; Gold squirmed underneath Archie for a moment, his hips pressing forward into Archie’s hands. With an enormous smile, Archie let go and shifted forward, so that he and Gold were face-to-face and Archie’s cock was pressed against Gold’s, with only the thin layer of Archie’s underwear separating them.

Gold raised his eyebrows, looking deliberately unimpressed. He opened his mouth to speak; Archie cut him off with a gentle kiss, his lips ever so slightly parted, and Gold returned it. Their hips were pressed together; Archie reached down briefly, trying to pull his underpants off, and lodged his elbow right into Gold’s bladder.

Gold jumped, letting out a pained yelp. Archie pulled back immediately but dissolved into giggles once more when he saw Gold holding himself like a little kid.

“Ready to admit you had to pee?” Archie asked. Gold threw him a filthy look and stepped off the bed gingerly, disappearing into the bathroom. Archie took the moment to stretch out on the bed, basking in the warmth.

“You get embarrassed too easily,” he called while Gold was away.

“Shut up,” Gold said.


End file.
